In the Surf
You walk like you’ve got stilts attached to your legs.
Slow striding
For surf riding
And each breaking, raking,
Rolling lush of cold spray
Finds a crevice, a patch of skin,
Unprotected by wet-suit,
As the next wave prepares its breaking.
Pulled and pushed,
Tipped and turned;
Raised and rushed,
Spilled and spurned…
From chest-deep ocean
To eddying shallows,
Your staggering, buffeted gait
Is simply an inadvertent, uncontrolled motion.
You thrust like you’ve got powerful acceleration behind your board.
Catapult riding
For speed gliding
And each funnelling, channelling
Thrashing crush of bold surf
Determines a route, a line of approach,
Unaffected by human choice,
As the second wave prepares its pummelling.
Pulled again, pushed,
Tipped again, turned;
Raised again, rushed,
Spilled again, spurned…
From chest-deep tide
To sizzling shallows,
Your stumbling, battered body
Is surely and inevitably rolled aside…
Pete Ray
August 2011
Being there. Good feeling.
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